


- i haven't left your bed since

by jericheaux



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Blood Kink, Canon Compliant, Homoeroticism, M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22088611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jericheaux/pseuds/jericheaux
Summary: A snippet of the in-between.
Relationships: Rafe Adler/Samuel Drake
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	- i haven't left your bed since

**Author's Note:**

> i have a disease and its called being a gay man with a fucking hugesmart brain

Summer of 2011

"The problem," Rafe waves his spoon in the air, "is that day-drinking is far too socially acceptable here for me to ever get anything done." 

Sam snorts. He sits cross-legged on the bed as Rafe sprawls on his stomach and uses Sam's knee as a pillow between bites of gelato. A long-finished glass of rosé with its remnants dribbling out and staining the bedspread is positioned precariously near Rafe's ankle.

"You weren't working in the first place," Sam says. Rafe hums noncommittedly and rolls over to set his empty bowl on the floor. The room is almost completely empty, featuring only the bed, their suitcases and travel equipment, and a table so old that neither of them dared to touch it. Sam's sure that by some standard they're squatting- but Rafe's stingy despite his fortune, and paranoid on top of that. Sam had spent a week scrolling through "Best Hotels in Rome" before Rafe dropped a manila envelope of fake IDs and a ridiculous amount of Euro on his desk. Yet there's a gentle ambiance to the secluded and abandoned apartment Rafe led him to, with its stone floors and peeling stucco walls, and the sight of Rafe lounging like a cat in the mid-morning sun is enough to quell Sam's complaints.

Rafe reasoned that they ought to spend a few days in and around the Vatican, as Sam had run away from Catholic school and Rafe was raised Jewish. Both of them could use a refresher on the Saints before they set out for Dismas, Rafe had said, and besides, Sam had earned a vacation. 

Papers are spread next to Rafe on the blanket- a few photocopies of maps, Sam's own notes scrawled in a moleskine, Rafe's obsessive tracings of the maps on increasingly smaller sheets of paper until they're almost illegible. Print-outs of Scottish cathedrals marked with Rafe's haphazard grocery lists. On the back, Sam's list of tourist destinations- the Pantheon, the Trevi. 

Sam stares at the maps for a few minutes, traces the lines with his finger as Rafe half-watches through almost-shut eyes. 

"I need to shower," Sam says, after a minute of thinking of nothing except the comfort of Rafe's head set solidly on his leg. Rafe grumbles and stretches enough to let Sam up. 

"I'll set up our things." Rafe yawns when he speaks. "The bathroom's fine, I checked it last night."

When Sam goes in there, it is. There's no light, but one window covered with a dusty screen. The tile floor is cracked, but the amenities are fine- Sam vaguely remembers Rafe in one of his cleaning frenzies the night before, muttering to himself as he went through a canister of disinfectant wipes- and Sam's showered in worse places, not counting the bathrooms in Panama. No curtain on the shower, and the wooden door is so warped by the heat that it barely closes when Sam attempts to tug it shut.

He undresses and runs the water. In their temporary living space, Rafe struggles to set up a tarp as a rug on which he lays out their belongings in meticulous piles. Sam knows the drill by now- Rafe will tut and fuss about the mess of Sam's clothes before folding them all anyways. 

Sam registers the door creaking open when his face is turned to face the showerhead. Rafe is leaning over the sink, preparing to brush his teeth, watching Sam in the mirror. Sam washes his hair and catches Rafe's eye through the thick steam. When Sam goes to shut off the water, Rafe politely focuses on his toothbrush. Sam dries his hair in a thin terry-cloth towel, wraps it around his waist and says nothing as Rafe spits and then rinses his mouth.

"Put on pants," Rafe says, too quickly, and then, "you need to shave." Rafe slams the door on his way out, and Sam waits until it's done swinging back open to follow him.

Rafe still watches him as he dresses in the corner. 

There's no real reason for Rafe to shave Sam's face, but he's done it before and seems insistent on doing it again. Part of Sam considers that it's his way of showing love- cleaning him, caring for him- or maybe he's just particular. Sam watches idly and digs through his jean pockets for a pack of cigarettes as Rafe settles into business mode- he goes to and from the bathroom, fills a small metal bowl with lukewarm water, procures a washcloth from their luggage. 

"Come here," says Rafe, and sits down on the floor with his back to one of the tall windows. 

"Are you gonna slit my throat?" Sam jokes, like he does every time, and Rafe smiles in a way that shows a few too many of his teeth, like he does every time. But Sam does sit across from Rafe, with only the shaving kit marking a space between them.

Rafe leans in and cups Sam's face in his hands. He stares at Sam's chest like he's counting how his heartbeat quickens, and then at Sam's jawline. Rafe half-jolts backward, for a millisecond, before pulling Sam into a kiss. Sam obliges, plays by their usual rules- Rafe will protectively, possessively, grip the back of Sam's neck, and Sam will let his hands rest on Rafe's hips. Rafe's mouth tastes like the gelato from earlier and toothpaste, and Sam takes it in as Rafe pushes his tongue onto his. When Rafe disconnects, there's a small line of spit on his chin that Sam lets sit glistening from his lip. 

Rafe swallows and stares at Sam again. He drops his hands to Sam's lower back, kisses his jawline and licks off the sweat rolling down the side of Sam's face. 

When Rafe stops looking at him, starts concentrating on soaking the washcloth in the bowl of water, Sam settles himself as well. Rafe holds the damp cloth to Sam's chin for a few seconds before dropping it back in the bowl, and Sam zones out to the feeling of Rafe putting cold gel on his jaw, the first scrape of the straight razor. Rafe is patient and precise when he shaves Sam's face- he absentmindedly rubs his thumbs near Sam's ears, memorizes the crevices of Sam's stubble like he's studying a map in braille. Sam holds his breath as Rafe carefully curves the razor around his Adam's apple, relaxes when Rafe finishes and wipes his face clean with the cloth.

"Missed a spot," Rafe says, and just like that, with a flash of the blade, Sam's face is nicked and bleeding. Before he can react to the sudden- and intentional, if Rafe's steady hands are any indication- cut, Rafe's hands are grasping at Sam's hair and clutching his face hard enough that it hurts- his mouth is on Sam's neck, licking the blood that drips down from his cheek.

Rafe moves away and looks up at Sam for a brief second. Sam's blood is on his mouth, his lips, and his eyes are dark and wide like they get after he hits his target.

Sam stifles the sounds in the back of his throat as Rafe continues to lick Sam's jaw clean. He sucks the blood from the wound like he's taking poison from a snakebite, scrapes his teeth on Sam's skin so desperately that Sam winces. He doesn't mind it- lets Rafe work off his bloodlust by panting warm air against his neck and using his canines too freely. Sam only uses a fraction of his strength when he grips Rafe's forearm, gives him a little push once Rafe starts to leave marks.

"Rafe-" Sam starts, and all of a sudden Rafe stops- sits back on his heels and lets his heavy breathing wear out. His hair is slightly messy, his hands now shaking. 

"Right," Rafe sighs, "right. Well," he stands up and turns his back to Sam, "you're done." 

Sam collects himself. Moves Rafe's little set up out of the way before inhaling deeply and settling next to Rafe at the window. Sam unlatches it, pretends not to notice Rafe subconsciously licking the tiny bit of Sam's blood left on his fingertips. The noise of the street is sudden, nothing like the stifling, burning silence of their room- Rafe steadies himself amongst the tumult, and when Sam offers a cigarette, Rafe takes it without touching his fingers. 

Once Rafe's halfway through his cigarette and Sam's started on his second, Rafe shakes his head a bit and wiggles his fingers like he's recalibrating his body. "Alright," Rafe says, leans on his elbow to point at the barely-visible skyline of the Vatican in the distance, "where to now?"


End file.
